Mistake
by cosmic12
Summary: An American teenager becomes infatuated with her family's apparently English boarder, only to find things are not as they seem. Set in 1960s USA; M for language and sex.
1. Chapter 1

Sophie was innocent. More innocent, perhaps, that a sixteen-year-old girl should have been. But the summer the boarder came would prove to be the end of her innocence.

The day he arrived she had stood at the top of the stairs while he exchanged pleasantries with her father. He had looked up at her smiling, and she blushed.

Dinner had been a timid affair. He sat opposite her at the table, her father at the head.

"So you're studying here, Mr. Peterson?"

"Yes – starting this September. I decided to come in August to get settled in."

"What are you studying?"

"Politics – my PhD."

"Well, it's a great school; my alma mater, you know?"

"Really? What did you major in?"

"Physics."

The boarder smiled and nodded. His eyes flickered towards Sophie and she blushed deeply, again, averting her gaze.

"So what's your name?" he asked gently.

"Sophie." She answered, looking up tentatively only to lower her gaze quickly.

"So are you at high school?"

"Yes – she's starting Junior year this August."

Sophie had opened her mouth to speak, and closed it disappointedly as her father cut across her.

"Where did you do your undergraduate?" Her father continued.

"Corpus Christi, Oxford."

Her father raised his eyebrows in surprise, "And where did you say you were from, again?"

"Coventry." The stranger answered, smiling. His eyes seemed to drop as he said it. He looked up again to see Sophie had been staring at him, and upon her eyes meeting his hers fell once more to the floor.

Sophie was fascinated by the boarder – his accent and background were completely foreign to her. The clothes he wore, the books he read – everything was different. His glasses – he was the picture of an intellectual, sitting in the corner of their bedroom and reading.

They didn't have a TV. Her father said that a television would corrupt her; and maybe he was right. Peterson didn't mind, he mainly sat in the corner and read.

One day the two of them were sitting there together when he asked, "What are you reading?"

"Pride and Prejudice."

"Ah – Austen. Do you like that sort of literature? The Bronte sisters and all that?"

Sophie blushed, "Yeah…"

"_Yes_, I think you mean. _Do _try to speak properly, dear." He smiled at her, and looked away, and Sophie went bright red, "I mean-"

He laughed to himself and put down his book, "I was only teasing."

"So what does your father do?"

"He…he works for the government."

"Really? What sort of things does he do?"

"I…I'm not allowed to say." Sophie said quietly.

The boarder laughed, and said casually, "Well, he's hardly building the A bomb, is he? But I suppose everything's a secret in America nowadays."

Sophie blushed once more, embarrassed.

The boarder smiled again, and turned back to his book.

Peterson spent a lot of time in his room. He wasn't exactly sociable. Sophie in many ways lacked the courage to talk to him, but when she managed to muster enough bravado to do so he humored her.

Sophie had certainly developed a juvenile crush; Peterson was completely aware of it and did nothing to encourage it without being harsh to the girl. She was certainly pretty; that much was certain. But the fact remained that she was too young, too naïve, too American.

One day the boarder decided to go out. He went out extremely rarely; once her father had taken him out to a restaurant. Sophie hadn't been allowed to come.

Sophie didn't know what possessed her that day; perhaps her curiosity got the better of her.

She opened the door to his bedroom, and began to have a look around. He was neat; very neat. Several political theory books lined his shelves – all were too dense for Sophie's interests.

Tentatively she eased open a drawer – underwear. She continued down the chest of drawers until she came to one full of papers. They were mainly political essays, correspondence, that sort of thing. One caught her notice. It was written in Russian, with what she assumed was Soviet insignia at the head.

She could feel her heart begin to beat faster, and a nervous sweat broke out over her body. Folding the letter she stuffed it into the pocket on the front of her dress, replaced the papers, and darted from his room back to her bedroom.

Sitting in her bedroom, Sophie surveyed the letter she had taken – her interest was piqued. She longed to read what the letter said, just so she could know, what it meant, whom it was from, and whom it was for.


	2. Chapter 2

The following day Peterson looked anxious. He couldn't sit still in the living room – uncrossing and crossing his legs, opening and closing his book, stopping occasionally to detachedly stare out the window.

"Something wrong?" her father asked.

"Nothing, - well, I've lost something."

"Oh dear. I'm sure it'll turn up."

Sophie opened her eyes wide, and her lower lip trembled. She turned her eyes down to her book. The boarder noticed, and narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips.

Sophie decided that she should leave the letter back. She felt in out of her depth; that if she was discovered something would happen to her. She waited until she heard him go into the bathroom for a shower, and slipped into the room quietly.

She immediately went for the bottom drawer. She tried to pull the drawer open, but discovering that it was locked began to panic. She pulled on the drawer frantically, but it wouldn't budge. Turning she noticed that there was a stack of papers under his bed. She pulled them out and saw what was unmistakably Soviet paperwork.

"What are you doing?"

Sophie's heart stopped. She turned slightly to see the boarder standing in front of her. He wasn't smiling now; there was a sternness that hadn't been there before.

"I'm sorry. I took your letter, I was leaving it back and-"

Her voice trailed off. He remained silent.

She stood up slowly, trembling, and tried to leave, but before she could he turned and seized her arm roughly.

"Did you read it? Did you show it to anyone?"

"N-no." She answered, her voice faltering.

He frowned.

"What is it?" She asked, suddenly. She genuinely thought that she had a right to know. But she still trembled with fear. Peterson pursed his lips and said quietly, "That is none of your business."

"Are you a Communist?" Sophie asked, her heart beating violently.

The boarder narrowed his eyes, and didn't answer her question, "Give me the letter."

Sophie's heart was beating faster and faster. She suddenly felt very afraid – terrified, even.

"N-no." She whispered, "I should show my father…"

The boarder's eyes flashed dangerously towards the door, and he stepped back and shut it.

"Give me the letter." He repeated, slowly and sternly, holding out his hand.

Sophie refused, and held the letter against her chest.

He pursed his lips, and began to walk in circles around her. Sophie's heart was beating frantically. She considered handing over the letter, but couldn't bring herself to.

He stopped beside her and leant in close to her ear, and whispered, "Do you even know what a Communist is?"

Sophie didn't answer.

"Have you even heard of Marx? Engels? Lenin?"

Sophie closed her eye, and a tear poured out across her cheek.

"I didn't think so." He said bitterly, before repeating his demand, "Give me the letter."

Sophie uncrossed her arms, and handed him the letter, her arm shaking violently.

"Are you a spy?"

The boarder snorted snidely, and turned away from her. He shook his head and turned back to her.

"You don't understand what you've got yourself into."


	3. Chapter 3

Sophie was now visibly shaking. She looked up at his unsympathetic face, and made a sudden dash for the door. He lunged forward and seized her around the waist, dragging her violently back into his bedroom and throwing her on the ground. His physical strength surprised her; he had a slight figure, yet had overpowered her easily.

"No, no, you aren't leaving." He said hurriedly. The boarder walked towards his chest of drawers, opened the top drawer, took a key and locked the bedroom door. Sophie sat up and began to cry. He heard her sob and turned sharply. He bit his lip and frowned. He almost felt sorry for her; she was a pathetic sight, standing there weeping..

He reached under the bed, and pulled out a small brown box, opening it to withdraw a handgun. Sophie gasped involuntarily, thinking _he's going to kill me. _He heard her and turned sharply, before turning back.

"Don't make this difficult," he whispered. "Get up."

Sophie didn't move. Impatiently he repeated himself and shook the gun at her, "Are you deaf?"

Sophie stood up slowly, and he took a deep breath before telling her, "Turn around."

He began lifting out his papers, piling them into his suitcase and lifted it from the bed. He pressed the gun into her back and barked, "Walk."

Sophie was shaking. She saw in the corner of her eye that he was carrying the suitcase protectively.

He marched her out of the house to her father's car. He opened the door, and waving the gun at her ordered her to get in. He got in the driver's seat and started the car, obviously having lifted the keys from the house.

Sophie sat in the seat beside him and cried softly to herself. She didn't understand what was happening, and a fear had arisen in her that the man sitting beside her was going to kill her. _Communists kill people, don't they? _

They drove out of town into the desert, further and further until there were no other people around. As the car ground to a halt Sophie began to panic.

"Now…" the boarder began, turning to Sophie, but she cut across him.

"Please, p-please don't kill me," she cried, tears pouring copiously from her eyes, "I won't tell anyone, I s-swear, please l-let me go home."

The boarder remained tight lipped, but said, "I have no intention of killing you, that is, unless you make this exceptionally difficult. We're going to Mexico City – I'll leave you there. That's all you need to know at the moment, I should think."

Sophie closed her mouth and further tears poured from her eyes.

"If you cooperate, I won't hurt you."

Sophie felt her panic level rising. She thought about her prospects of escape; he had a gun, and she was currently in the middle of the desert. She wouldn't get far.

Sophie nodded sadly, and he started the car again.

Eventually they pulled up outside a motel – it was getting dark. Sophie, who had been sleeping, woke up suddenly, her eyes heavy.

"Right." He began softly, "now, you'll pretend to be my girlfriend."

Sophie grimaced and turned away.

"Don't make this difficult," he warned, frowning.

Sophie sighed. He opened the door and got out and waited for her to follow.

He walked to her and seized her hand roughly, digging his nails into her, and hissed, "Smile. _We're in love._"

He dragged her into the motel, with his overcoat over his arm.

The woman at the desk handed them the key detachedly, suspecting nothing. When they reached the room Peterson took several minutes to open the door. Sophie began to shiver; it was bitingly cold. Finally he shoved the door open and they entered the grotty motel room. There was only one bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Peterson preempted her concerns.

"It's alright. You can have the bed."

Sophie walked over to the bed. It sagged.

"I haven't got any pyjamas. Or a change of underwear-" Sophie began, with tears of frustration beginning to build up in her eyes.

Peterson closed the door slowly behind him. His eyes raked over her while he formulated a response. From her pale, innocent face, her small, almost childlike breasts; her round knees and thin, pale calves. _She was probably a virgin. No, she was definitely a virgin. _ The thought flashed through his mind idly, and left him quickly. _No, too young. _ She noticed the change in his expression, and her lower lip began to tremble, and her voice trailed off.

"We'll sort it out tomorrow. Just sleep in your underwear."

Sophie's eyes widened and she said defensively, "I'm not undressing in front of _you_."

"Fine then, wear your clothes. I don't particularly care."

Sophie whimpered in frustration and threw herself backwards on the bed. He sat down on a chair beside a desk, and began to go through his papers. Sophie saw her opportunity. Suddenly she jumped off the bed and darted past Peterson, who responded just as fast, jumping from his seat and slinging his arm around her waist, stopping her before she had even reached the door.

"Are you stupid, bitch?" He said, holding her against him, before pushing her to her knees in front of him. Immediately he reached for the gun on his desk and held it against the back of her head.

"You know that I could just kill you now?" He jeered.

"Please," she whispered, "I'm sorry."

Peterson almost felt sorry for her. In a way he was shocked at how violent he had been to her, yet there was something satisfying about it.

"Fine," he muttered, after some time, "Get up. Don't try anything else so stupid."

Sophie stood up slowly, and went to sit down on the bed. Peterson took the key to the door and locked it, smiling triumphantly at her, before going back to his desk. She lowered her eyes sadly and sat in silence for several minutes. He went through his papers meticulously, seemingly checking and double-checking everything several times.

Sophie got up and began to pace about the room, growing bored. Peterson was visibly irritated; it was as if she were deliberately trying to induce this effect. Eventually he snapped and stood up suddenly to confront her.

"Enough! Sit down!" he cried, grabbing her arm. Sophie looked up at him, angrily. She should hate this man; after all he had more or less kidnapped her, yet a remnant of her crush still remained.

She didn't understood why she did what she did. Indeed, in retrospect it was very, very foolish. She kissed him. On the lips.

"Glupaya!" He cried, pushing her away violently, so violently in fact that she fell on the floor.

For an unknown reason, this triggered a violent urge in him that he hadn't experienced in a long while.

"You stupid, stupid girl! What do you think this is, a Jane Austen novel?"

Sophie backed away slowly, crawling backwards across the ground, eventually into a corner. Peterson followed her, anger visible on his face. Eventually she stood up, trapped behind him, like a mouse cornered by a cat.

Peterson lifted his hand as if to strike her and Sophie raised her hand to defend herself. He seized her hand violently, and turned her with force so that she faced the wall.

"Why did you kiss me?" He asked, his tone mocking, "What are you trying to do?" He paused for a second. "What do you want me to do?"

Sophie felt tears building up behind her eyelids. She had never felt so vulnerable, so humiliated in all her life.

"American whore." He muttered.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"S-stop saying those things. Don't-"

Peterson pushed her wrist against her back violently, and said acidly, "Don't what?" He then turned her to face him, but Sophie refused to let her eyes meet his.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" Sarcasm dripped from each word. Sophie cowered, trying to hide her face with her hand.

Peterson wrenched her hand away from her face, and lowering his face to her pushed his lips aggressively against hers. She tried to pull away, but he took hold of her hair and refused to let go.

Sophie could feel her heart beginning to beat faster. She felt sick, almost dizzy. She could feel his hand releasing her wrist and sliding up her back. The hair on her arms stood on end. There was something gentle about the way he touched her, yet at the same time forceful and insistent. She didn't really understand how she felt in this position; it was too alien for her.

Sophie became aware that there was something hard pushing against her thigh. She began to squirm in discomfort, and it was only when she remembered a high school biology lesson that she realized what it was. Mortified, she blushed deeply.

His throat emitted a deep, guttural sound, and all his uncertainty melted away. He wanted to take her; he needed the release. Her age didn't matter now. He threw the gun away and slid his hands up her skirt. She gasped as his hot, clammy hands touched her cold flesh.

"Please." She whispered.

He started. He had never thought about whether he would be able to rape someone; but he had never thought that he would be so affected by her plea. Yet his erection was straining against his trousers…

He pulled his hands away, and took several steps back. Sophie immediately cast her gaze back to him. The look on her face was disappointed, and Peterson realized it straight away. Sophie stood up and turned away from him, burying her face in her hands. He walked to her quickly and wrapped his arms around her waist, and turned her to face him. Her lip trembled with fear, but also excitement.

"Do you want this?"

Sophie looked up at him, her eyes wide, and nodded.

He tightened his grip around her waist and lifted her straight off the ground, only to throw her on the bed. She sat up, but Peterson seized her neck and jumping on the bed pushed her flat against the sheets. She shuddered as she felt his hands pulling down her underwear. He fumbled with his trousers, and eventually managed to pull them down to his knees. He didn't kiss her, but lying on top of her looked into her eyes deeply. His look was lustful, but also harsh; almost aggressive. Sophie trembled with fear and desire. He wrenched her legs apart and she wrapped them around his waist, her skirt falling back to her thighs. His erection was straining painfully now. Sophie could feel it against her, and shuddered with anticipation.

Peterson smirked, and leaning in close to her ear, whispered, "Are you wet for me, you little American bitch?"

"I don't understand." She whispered in response.

He smirked, "No, of course you don't."

Before she could answer, he threw his hips against hers. Sophie yelped, unprepared for the penetration. She felt a wave of pain as her hymen broke, but Peterson didn't take notice.

His thrusts were irregular and violent. Sophie didn't feel any pleasure; it was uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. Peterson's gaze seemed to bore into her; Sophie met his eyes reluctantly and looked away quickly.

"Please," she whimpered, "you're hurting me."

Peterson stopped at once. He looked at her with wrath, and pulled out, kneeling up on the bed. Sophie doubled up, and shook violently, crying. She didn't know why she was so upset – perhaps that she had lost her virginity in such circumstances.

Peterson sighed, turned back to her, and saw a stream of blood dribbling across her thigh, and immediately shuffled up to her, turning her from her side to face him.

"Now, now, why are you crying?"

"I-it hurts, please…"

He slid his hand down her side and around her waist, uncharacteristically gentle. There was a lot of blood; much more than he expected. He realized that she was in serious pain.

"Shsh, it's not that bad, stop crying." Sophie tried to turn away from him, but he turned her body fully, and held her body against him. She held her fists in front of her face, and sobbed violently. Peterson held her in her arms, and eventually they finally fell asleep together.

When Sophie woke up the next day, Peterson was already dressed and sitting at the desk, working. She sat up, and he turned to her suddenly, and then back to his work.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, with his back still turned.

"Fine." She replied, getting out of the bed. They got dressed and left the motel, in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

There was awkwardness between them as they drove along the road; after 45 minutes it had become unbearable.

"I'm sorry I hurt you." Peterson said quietly.

"It's alright." She answered, keeping her eyes in front of her; she couldn't bear to look at him.

Peterson sighed deeply and stopped the car.

"Are you religious, Sophie?" He asked softly.

She looked startled, and mouthed her answer almost silently, "Yes."

"Do you feel ashamed? Is that what it is?"

Sophie didn't answer, and scowling turned away from him.

"Do you believe in God?"

He shook his head and started the car again.

"Are you in the KGB?" She asked boldly.

"Well, I suppose there's no point in lying; I am."

"How did you end up in the Soviet Union?"

"What do you mean?"

"How did an Englishman end up working for the USSR?"

Peterson remained silent for a moment, and then murmured, "I'm not English."

"What?"

"I was born and raised in Leningrad."

Sophie gasped, and her lips began to tremble.

"You're Russian? But your accent…"

"Learned." He said sharply.

Sophie could feel herself shaking. She didn't understand why, but this seemed to change everything. She had slept with someone who was trying to destroy her country, everything her country stood for. He was trying to get information in order to advance the USSR's interested over those of the USA. She felt sick; she felt guilty. And yet, she still felt attracted to him.

"What's your real name?" She whispered.

"Mikhail Lembkin. Mikhail Vasilovich Lembkin. My father was Vasily Lembkin, you see."

As it was getting dark, Lembkin pulled over at the side of the road. There was not another town for miles.

"We'll have to sleep here."

Sophie nodded, and lay back against the seat.

"I need a cigarette." He said, getting out of the car, "Do you want one?"

"No, I'm okay. I – I'll get into the back so I can lie down."

For some reason, Sophie tried to climb over the back seats into the back. However as she did she managed to get herself stuck. Lembkin heard her cries and turned back to the car. He laughed at the ridiculous position she was in, and getting into the back seat helped to extricate her.

"My, my, Sophie," he said, catching a glimpse of flesh as her dress fell back to reveal her legs. He suddenly felt a surge of lust. He didn't understand why he wanted her – this _girl_ (she could hardly be called a woman) so much; he usually went for older women, but this…perhaps he enjoyed the control and domination it gave him. Perhaps there was a thrill in a girl like her being subjugated by a man like him..

She looked up at him with fear. She backed up against the seat and widened her eyes.

"Do you want me to join you?"

Sophie froze, almost unable to answer. He was kneeling on the left seat while she lay sprawled across the right and centre. He ran his hand along her calve and she closed her eyes, trying to fight back tears. She was terribly conflicted – that he could see. The hair on her legs was standing on end.


	6. Chapter 6

He curled his hand around her ankle, and pulled her sharply until she was under him. He lay on top of her, holding her in place with his weight.

"Please," She said softly.

"Don't you want this?"

"No, please... I want you to…I want you to…hurt me. I want you to hurt me." She repeated embarrassedly, turning her face away from him.

Lembkin's eyes flared with excitement. He would admit to having had darker fantasies. He had always been taught it was shameful to hurt a woman, and yet there was something about it that thrilled him; power and control had always appealed to him – indeed it was one of his main motivations for joining the KGB.

He seized her underwear and pulled it to her knees with some force. Sophie gasped, but he clapped his left hand over her mouth, "You want me to hurt you?" He unfastened his jeans and pulled open his underwear, "I'll hurt you."

Sophie's eyes widened with lust and trepidation when she saw his genitals. She closed her eyes, and readied herself for the pain she expected would come. Instead, she felt a finger gently prodding her, and she opened her eyes to see Lembkin staring down at her. He smiled, and before she could react felt a hard slap across the face.

"You're wet, you dirty American slut."

Sophie was shocked by his aggression, yet it made her long for him more. His entry itself was gentle, but once inside he fucked her mercilessly. Every so often there would be a violent slap, "Dirty whore," "Filthy American bitch" and so on.

He began to bite her neck, almost making her bleed. Sophie didn't understand it, but the pain made her want it more. She could feel waves of pleasure consuming her, a sensation she had never even dreamed of beforehand. As she began to come she seized his waist desperately and pressed her cheek against his naked chest. Lembkin slowed down as he felt her tightening around him. He too was close to orgasm, but he wouldn't stop. He pushed her violently back against the seat, seizing her neck and beginning to squeeze. Sophie felt a rush of fear as he began to crush her airway, yet this was accompanied by a second wave of pleasure. There seemed to be a dichotomy between the pain she felt and the pleasure she experienced, but at the same time the two complemented each other perfectly. Eventually he too began to slow down and eventually spilt himself into her, his English relapsing back into Russian, and collapsed on top of her.

Sophie sat in the seat and sobbed. He was sitting opposite her, smoking. Occasionally he would cast a glace towards her, and look away quickly. Eventually he reached out to touch her face, but she pulled away, almost frightened. In the throes of passion it had all seemed right. But now, sore, tired and sweating – she felt disgusting. He was right – she really was a filthy slut.

"I don't feel well." She said quietly.

"Maybe you should go to sleep."

"I'm cold." She murmured.

Despite what he had done to her, Lembkin couldn't help but view her as a child. There was a certain innocence about her; her very demeanor was childlike. He took off his jacket and gave it to her, turning away. He had never felt so ashamed in all his life.

She wrapped the jacket around her, now visibly shaking. She opened the door in a daze and got out of the car, but immediately fell to the ground. She sobbed pitifully and tried to wrap her arms around herself. Lembkin left the car and came to her, and helped her to her feet.

She tried to push him away feebly, but his arms overcame her and he carried her back to the car.

"No, no…no!" She cried, pushing him way with violent force, and collapsing to the ground against the car door. "I want to go home." She said desperately, tears now streaming down her face.

Lembkin frowned, and clenched his fist.

"No. I'm sorry. You can't."

Sophie looked at him momentarily, before turning her head away from him and nodding.

She slept in the back seat that night; he in the front. As she drifted off to sleep, Lembkin watched her intently. He too felt guilt, although for many different reasons. He had compromised himself. By succumbing to sexual desire he had given her some power. He would desire her now; and she would withhold herself from him, and he would be able to do nothing; he wasn't a rapist. On another level he felt sorry for Sophie – he had little emotional attachment to her, although when he saw her in such a vulnerable state, he felt protective over her, like she was a younger sister or cousin.

At the same time, however, this was confused by his own sense of anger, of hatred towards her; her and what she symbolized. He hated her for making him compromise himself. He hated her because he had succumbed to her. He hated her because she was ignorant. Because she was naïve. Because she was _American. _


End file.
